Bloodsport
by Countryole
Summary: "Or would this be worse, more painful? Because every time he looks at Jane, Taylor Shaw is there too—two impossibly different lives tied together by the same thread." Jane is injured in the field, and Kurt tries to deal with it. Unfortunately, Jane makes that hard to do. Set several months after 1x10.
1. Chapter 1

_**Bloodsport**_

 _"If I fall short, if I break rank, it's a bloodsport, but I understand. I am all yours, I am unmanned, I'm on all fours, willingly damned." - Raleigh Ritchie_

* * *

Kurt sometimes thinks she was sent to him to teach him patience.

If that were the case, he wants to inform the powers-that-be that their plan is severely flawed. Or, at the very least that they have a terrible sense of humor, because it's the kind of joke that's going to send him to an early grave. He's certain that before he actually gets a chance to learn any patience at all, he'll either have a coronary, be arrested for murder, or end up institutionalized. Whichever happens first will depend on how much sleep he's had, or hasn't, and just how much Jane thinks she can get away with during a case. Which, typically, is always a lot.

Kurt's learned to adjust of course. Some days are better than others.

Today is one of _those_ days, the kind that isn't going so well.

It's for a multitude of reasons he can only attempt to pinpoint. One being that a simple conversation with a witness from there current case had somehow turned into a foot chase. Secondly, it's only been a week since Mayfair lifted Jane's medical suspension and cleared her to go back into the field with the team. Chasing large, armed, dangerous strangers through the streets of New York is the last thing Kurt wants her doing. So much for making her ease back into things, not that anything about Jane has ever been easy…

He tries not to think about it, the all too cruel irony; she got shot a month ago to the very day. Her collapsed lung almost suffocated her before the paramedics could get her to the hospital. Kurt pushes those thoughts and memories into the furthest reaches of his mind possible, buries them, praying that's where they'll stay.

If only it were that simple.

Their current situation is distraction enough. Kurt Weller has never been cut out for high speed pursuits. Sure, he's in good shape, but his back and his knees are shitty from years of abuse, a combination of his days as a linebacker in college coupled with too many on-the-job brawls with America's most wanted. So now, flying down the streets of Manhattan, a stride behind Jane, who is a stride behind their suspect, he cusses under his breath. Give him something to hit and tackle, because this sprinting bullshit is for the birds. _Why did they always have to run?_

The man they're chasing is Troy Williams. He's a former bouncer for a night club that's been laundering money to suspected terrorist sympathizers, the kind that have ties to prominent United States corporate interests that could lay open a scandal for the ages. All thanks to another one of Jane's tattoos, of course. Williams shoulders through the throngs of people on the crowded city sidewalks, clearing a path in his wake, before disappearing into a side alley up ahead.

"Kurt!" Jane calls out mid-sprint, people diving out of their way.

"I see him," Kurt yells back, "Zapata, give us some eyes!"

"Headed up the fire escape!" Tash is watching back at headquarters, manning the satellite feed, and her voice crackles in his ear over coms.

"I'm going to try and head him off," he calls to Jane.

"Got it," she barks back, and in a seamless transition they split up. She disappears around the corner and into the alley in pursuit of the fleeing man, and Kurt continues to fly down the sidewalk at mach five.

He hauls ass for another block, finds the next alley down that runs the opposite side of the same building, and another set of fire escape stairs. He's climbing them, taking them two and three steps at a time, almost to the top, when Jane's and Tash's voices sound off over his earpiece, along with the echo of Jane's labored breathing. He immediately wonders if it's because of the distance they've just ran, or something else.

"He should be right there." Tash is frustrated, her help limited to what she can see on the computer screen in front of her, and she hate's it.

" _Where_?"

"He just passed that electrical unit, you should be right on top of him!"

"Tasha I don't see—"

Kurt hears it first.

Gunshots usually sound all the same, but this one is different.

The crack of the explosion echoes in his ears as he hauls himself up the last set of stairs and onto the rooftop. The sunlight hits him straight in the face from the west, and all he can see as his eyes start to focus are the two silhouettes struggling ahead of him. There's a discarded gun on the ground.

It paralyzes him for a fraction of a second, and he can feel his heart temporarily fail in his chest, followed by blinding panic as he realizes the two circling figures are Williams and Jane.

Jane's not as sharp as she normally is, it's been weeks since either of them have sparred together in the gym since she was shot, and it shows. She's safetying up when she would usually risk getting closer, to try and turn the tables against the stronger opponent, but she's also not stupid. She's well aware she's at a disadvantage. She still has stitches in her chest for Christ's sake from the last surgery, from the bullet that almost killed her. _Fuck, Weller—you let her run right into this!_ Kurt immediately draws his pistol, tries to find an in, but he quickly realizes that he's in an impossible situation. The suspect is between him and her, there's no clear shot that doesn't put her in the line of fire. He's stuck.

 _Goddammit_.

Even though she's faster than her opponent, more agile, in close quarters it's not helping her win this fight. She hesitates a fraction of a second too long, and Williams overpowers her with brute force. He unsteadies her when he rushes her, sweeps her legs out from underneath her with a low kick when she doesn't evade him fast enough. She's on her back and he's on top of her before Kurt can even think to react.

Everything else happens in a matter of seconds, but it's like he's watching it in excruciating slow motion.

Jane cries out when William's digs a knee into her chest, making her gasp for air. He has one hand wrapped around her throat and the other one is reaching for the gun that's now just an arms length away from them both. Then it's in his hand. Then Jane is staring down the muzzle.

In a moment of desperation she does the opposite of what anyone would do—tries to get closer. The split second that Williams uses to shift his weight to level the gun at her face becomes her last resort. Fighting against his dead weight, she lifts her torso up off the ground just enough to close the gap between them, just enough so that when she darts out a quick, calculated hand, she doesn't miss. All of her strength, what's left of it, is focused solely on making sure she grabs him by the wrist (the one attached to the hand holding the gun), and that she twists it at just the right angle when she jerks backwards, just as he tightens his hold around her neck.

And this is the part of Jane that Kurt Weller both loves and hates in equal measure. The fact that when the odds are stacked against her, she won't give up the fight, even if winning risks paying the ultimate price.

Another gunshot erupts in the air, but this time the crack of the gun is accompanied by a crack of broken bones and Williams' screams as he drops the weapon. Somewhere a stray bullet ricochets off of cement and metal and disappears.

Kurt had started rushing them the moment she hit the ground, and now he closes the gap in a heartbeat, kicking the gun as he passes it so that it goes skidding across the roof well out of reach. He's moving so fast he's even got Jane surprised when he appears over the shoulder of the guy who's still got her in a choke hold. In one quick movement he forcibly drives the butt of his pistol into the back of the Williams' skull, hard enough to feel it give and crack under the pressure, to draw blood. Kurt doesn't even check to see what happens when he crumples to the ground in a lifeless heap beside them, _he doesn't care_.

The only thing that matters is Jane.

" _Jesus._ " Kurt's gets on the ground, down on his knees. His hands are on her shoulders, but she's rolled over onto her side, still seeing stars, still gasping and coughing for air and clutching at her chest. He immediately looks for gunshot wounds, for blood, and his panic doubles when he pulls her arms away long enough to spot the crimson red stain at the front of her shirt.

"Kurt, talk to me." Zapata's back in his ear, an echo of desperation. "Backups coming alright? _Is she ok_?" Even the fearless Tasha is rattled, Kurt can hear it in her voice, and he imagines she's been pacing the satellite feed room like a rabid wolf. Close calls did that to her; she's lost more people than he has.

"I'm fine—" Jane gulps for air, eyes watering, "—it's just the stitches."

"Fine my ass," Kurt mutters, and he sucks in a breath, lets go of her only to holster his gun and turn back to cuff the incapacitated man. "Tasha, we need an ambulance," he cinches the cuffs extra tight around the man's already swollen wrist, and he contemplates breaking the other one too.

"I'm _fine_." Jane repeats, rolling back onto her back, eyes closed, trying to regain her bearings and catch her breath. "It's busted stitches, Kurt. I'll live."

"It's less for you," Kurt turns back to her, his words a little softer, nodding back over his shoulder, "and more for him."

She manages a laugh at that, but it turns into a cough again, and Kurt's brow furrows, his face falling as he reaches down for her. He'd have the medics check her too, just to be safe, no matter what kind of threats she'd try to make it get out of it.

Jane takes his hands, lets him pull her up into a sitting position, but before he realizes what she's doing she's wrapped her arms around his neck. She pulls him closer, buries her face in his shoulder, her hands in his hair. Kurt instinctively draws her to him, breathes out an audible sigh of relief he hadn't realized he'd been holding. She's warm and real against his chest, her pulse as he rests his hand at the bird on her neck _so strong_ , and in that moment he all but breaks and falls apart completely. He clutches her, as close as he can get her without hurting her any worse than she already is, presses his lips to the top of her head, breathes her in. They stay like that, unmoving and intertwined, until the sound of sirens picks up in the distance.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly as she draws back, stricken when she looks up at him, as if it's somehow her fault. It _kills_ him.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Kurt takes her face in his hands, staring at her intently before placing a chaste kiss to her forehead. "It's over."

But it's never over, not really, and later on while he watches Jane sit in the back of the ambulance, watches the paramedic catalogue all the new bruises and injuries and things that will result in more scars across the already scarring canvas of tattoos she wears, he wonders if it ever really will be.

* * *

"You ok? Reade wanted me to check on you."

Tash appears at the door of his office, leaning against the frame. Kurt glances up from the case file he's been looking at, trying to trace Williams steps back to whoever his boss is, following the never ending money trail that landed them here in the first place. Thanks to Kurt, Williams can't answer that question for himself, since he's currently sitting in a coma in the ICU of New York Presbyterian with a fractured skull.

He's been beating himself up about it for the better part of the evening since they got back to headquarters. That's why Tash knew he'd be in here, the one place he almost never spends any time in these days, when everyone else has already called it a night and gone home—including Jane. It's the place he goes when he needs to take a step back, to get his head set right on his shoulders. This case has been one cluster fuck after the other, and with the way things went today, with Jane almost… _No_ , he's not going to think about it. Not right now.

He just needs some separation. Some space. Or at least that's what he tells himself.

Kurt shuts the file, pushing it to the side, bracing one arm against the surface of the desk while he runs his free hand over his face. Surely he looks as bad as he feels, he thinks, because at this point the dark circles under his eyes have become a permanent fixture of his appearance. He doesn't get much sleep these days.

"Kurt…" Tash steps inside, shuts the door behind her and leans back against it. The way she says his name is a threat; _talk or I'll make you._ It isn't very often she feels compelled to seek him out, she knows he's usually got a handle on his shit, even on the bad days. But Tash isn't stupid, and they've worked together for too many years for her not to see him drowning, even if he's too stubborn to call for help.

"No," Kurt admits reluctantly, like it's an interrogation shakedown instead simple question, "No, not really."

Tash nods her head in acknowledgement, bites her lip as she considers him from a distance. They both know he rarely admits to having clouded judgment in these kinds of scenarios, the type of situations and circumstances where he has to be honest with himself that he's got blinders on. The fact that he's admitting it at all, when he'd usually deny it, is a big enough red flag for Tash. For her it means that Kurt's backed himself into a corner, the kind he doesn't know how to get out of. What's worse is that both he and Tash are acutely aware that it has nothing to do with the case, nothing to do with his ability to do his job, but everything to do with what happened on the rooftop today.

It has everything to do with Jane.

"She shouldn't have been in the field today," Kurt mutters, "I knew she wasn't ready, and I _still_ let Mayfair clear her."

"Jane's a big girl, Kurt," Tash crosses the threshold, crosses her arms as she stops and stands in front of him at his desk, "she would've done it whether you wanted her to or not, and you know it. You can't blame yourself for that."

"I couldn't keep her safe, Tasha." Kurt looks down at his hands, clenches them into fists, replays the scene on the rooftop in his head for the thousandth time, "it scares me, because I don't think she sees it. She doesn't stop, she doesn't _think_ …" Kurt sucks in a breath, releases it slowly before meeting Tash's sad brown eyes again, "she's going to get herself _killed_."

"Jesus Kurt—" Tash looks at him, horrified he's saying these kinds of things out loud, "— _no_ , she's not." She leans down, grabs his hand, tries to funnel some sort of sense or reason into the dark hole he's falling down. She levels him with the look she reserves especially for calling him out on his shit, and it makes him cringe. He has to resist the urge to look away, to drop his eyes like a child being scolded. "You need to cut the man on fire routine and fucking talk to her, ok? If she hears it from you, if you stop waiting for her to read your mind, maybe she'll start thinking about it."

Kurt would've told anyone else to go fuck themselves, but Special Agent Natasha Zapata is an incredible individual with a knack for telling him exactly what he needs to hear, exactly when he needs to hear it. After seven years as partners—as friends, _really_ good friends—and enough baggage between them to supply several third world countries, that's one thing Kurt Weller knows will never change.

Kurt chuckles, a small sound, almost inaudible, but it's the first time he's felt like laughing all day. When he peers up at her with his sheepish, boyish half-grin, she can only manage to shake her head in exasperation. She still has a scowl on her face, but her eyes are laughing too.

"You're insufferable, y'know that?" She gestures with her hand, standing back up, "It's a wonder she puts up with you at all. She's a saint."

"Hey!" Kurt feigns injury, pretends to be hurt by her accusations, but he knows she's right.

Tash rolls her eyes, turns away from him and moves to the door. When her hand reaches the doorknob to let herself out, she pauses and glances back over her shoulder.

"Just do it, ok, Weller?" She's insistent now, but her earlier wrath is replaced with something more sobering and serious. It's less of a request and more of a non-negotiable demand than anything, more of a warning, and her eyes are narrowed and staring at him pointedly. "Jane's good for you. The last four months have been the most I've seen you smile in _years_. I don't want to see you screw another good thing up because you couldn't use your damn words."

They both know who she's talking about without having to say it. Tash will be damned if she has to watch him ruin another one of her friends, Kurt can see it on her face, the underlying threats of bodily harm and murder if he were to make the same mistake again. He thinks about Allie, about all the reasons and excuses he gave himself for why it didn't work. He thinks about how much he hurt her.

Were he and Jane doomed to fall to the same destructive history that preceded her and all his other relationships? Or would this be worse, more painful? Because every time he looks at Jane, Taylor Shaw is there too—two impossibly different lives tied together by the same thread.

He doesn't want to know the answer.

"I promise, Tasha."

He's not sure it's a promise he'll be able to keep.

* * *

 _ **AN:** Thanks for all the reviews on everything you guys, it's been really fun seeing you all so damn excited about Blindspot, and that makes me happy. So, this is set somewhere a couple months after 1.10, maybe in an AU of sorts where the Oscar question is resolved, or maybe not, I haven't entirely decided yet. BUT WHATEVER. Kurt and Jane are together, if it wasn't obvious. This is part one in a series of several chapters, I think. Rated T for later scenes, with the probability of it being changed to M at a later point. Anyone remember me talking about Jane and Kurt and a bed? This is the brain child of that and other discussions on Tumblr, so thanks for that guys._

 _I'll shutup now, because I need sleep._

 _Special shoutout to CJ and all you other crazies who have been encouraging me with all these ideas. And by encouraging I mean feeding my addiction and making me forget to do important things, like being a responsible adult._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Kurt let's out an audible sigh of relief when he get's home, steps through the door, and locks it securely behind him. He leans against the door for a second, looking past the kitchen and the living room, toward the hall and the soft glow of light from their bedroom. He revels in the quiet for a moment, in the sanctity of it, the solid door at his back a reminder that all of this is very real. This is his home, Jane's home, and she is still here. He thinks he can hear the shower running, and the slight echo of someone singing off key. They're familiar sounds, comforting sounds, something he appreciates so much more now.

His lips quirk up in a grin as he he steps away from the door and follows the sound into the apartment.

She's in the shower much like he suspected, and Kurt pauses at the edge of their bathroom and watches her for just a moment. Her back is to him, and he can see the distorted outline of her through the glass door, the hexagon along her spine, the oil derricks, his name, all permanently etched into her skin along with a million other things. She's humming to herself, and she turns to let the spray of the water hit her back. When she looks up she sees him, and he smiles when she jumps, and her humming turns to muttered curses under her breath instead as she cracks the door open and sticks out her head.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Jane scowls when she pokes her head out, dark hair dripping wet, water collecting on the floor.

"That's not funny," Kurt scowls back, stepping forward and closing the distance between them. Jane rolls her eyes, teasing, and leans a little further out the door once Kurt reaches her, and he dips his head down and kisses her. It's meant to be a quick kiss, but as all his other well intentioned endeavors, it doesn't turn out like he intended. Quick soon turns into the front of his shirt and slacks becoming soaking wet as the shower door slides the rest of the way open, not that he cares.

"I thought you might be spending the night at the bureau," Jane murmurs against his mouth, and there's a question there he knows she won't ask— _are you still mad at me?_ He can feel the tension rolling off of her in waves, the worry in the taught line of her shoulders, the tentativeness of her touch that isn't usually there. His stomach twists a little, with guilt, as he realizes what she's getting at.

"You thought I wasn't coming home?" He asks, somewhat surprised, and a little upset. Jane pulls away from him ever so slightly, retreating into the shelter of the shower and the water, and she shrugs and wraps her arms around her chest out of habit. She tries to hide out of instinct. Kurt's eyes fall to the scar along her sternum, and the freshly fixed sutures from today, the new bruise that wasn't there before. It disappears between the slope of her breasts, hidden behind the cross of her arms. He notices that her black eye is starting to show up, angry black-blue bruising along her eye socket and cheek, another token from her battle with Williams.

"I don't know what to think anymore," Jane replies softly, pulling Kurt back into the conversation, and he looks up to meet her eyes with a frown, "we haven't talked much lately."

"I know," Kurt's hands fall to his sides, his fingers still tingling from where they'd been touching her wet skin just moments before. The emptiness suddenly becomes an ache. "I'm sorry, Jane, I—"

"Not now," she shakes her head, droplets of water rolling down her shoulders, her neck, the shower spray reaching him like a fine mist. She gestures for him, beckons him closer, forgives him without having to say a word. "Join me, please?"

Kurt swallows, and then nods.

"Ok."

He strips out of his clothes easily enough, throwing them in Kurt Weller fashion to the far side of the bathroom, and then he joins her in the small space of their apartment shower. He tries to recall the last time they've seen each other like this, completely naked. He tries not to think about the fact that they haven't had sex since she came home from the hospital, because he's been so afraid of hurting her. He tries not to think about the way her touch burns his skin. It almost overwhelms him when when she steps closer until they're flush against one another. Her arms wrap around his neck and her face burrows into his shoulder, her body molded to his perfectly, as if she were meant to fit there—his better half.

They stand like that for a moment in silence, and one of Kurt's arms tangle around her waist, the other hand running through the soaking wet ends of her hair as he presses his lips to the top of her head. The spray of the water is at his back, shielding Jane from the majority of it. It's lukewarm, because those were the rules when you had sutures in your chest; lukewarm showers and only for ten to fifteen minutes at a time.

"It's only been five minutes," Jane murmurs against his skin, pressing her lips to his collar bone, reading his mind like she always does.

Kurt chuckles at that, and holds her even tighter. To think a month ago this was almost stolen from him, that _she_ was almost stolen from him, is enough to wipe away the days frustration with her wildcard antics on the rooftop with Williams. The only thing that frustrates him now is that he's been so rigid, so distant in maintaining that he keep her safe during her recovery, when all he's really been doing is wasting time while she's been right there in front of him. All he's really been doing is trying to protect himself from the fact that he loves her, and that the sheer thought of losing her terrifies him to no end. It's made him a coward.

Kurt pulls back, brushes the wet strands of her hair out of her face and frames it with his hands, brushing his thumbs along the line of her jaw, and she peers up at him expectantly. She seems so much smaller here, so much more fragile, alone with him, completely exposed and with no where to hide. He follows the patterns of her tattoos, along the slope of her shoulders, across her chest, and down her arms. He can feel the softness of her skin, the gentle touch of her own hands against his, and it strikes him how someone like Jane, who is always so much larger than life, suddenly seems so breakable. She suddenly seems so human.

His hands still framed at the edges of her face, he dips his head down, and kisses her softly.

"I love you," he whispers against her mouth, barely audible over the sound of the water, or the sound of his own heart hammering in his ears, in his chest.

"Love you more," she whispers back, and before he can argue and tell her that it's not true, that it's not possible, she's kissing him again. He kisses her back this time with less softness, with more hunger, and when her mouth parts for him, when her fingers start to dig into his shoulders, he finds himself relenting, giving in to her demands like he always has.

* * *

He traces her tattoos carefully with his fingers, reverently following the lines of the cathedral across her chest, the serpent that winds around one breast, and the grids and shapes that cover the other. He follows the line of the surgical scar that runs the length of her sternum, leans over her and presses his lips to the scar left from the bullet wound, his palm resting flat against the flaming rose along her stomach. Jane shifts beneath him, naked and sprawled across their bed, and sighs at his ministrations. He ignores the fact that they'd practically tumbled into bed still soaking wet, not having bothered to towel off when he'd carried her hear from the shower.

It had been worth it, to have her wet and begging, first against his fingers and his mouth, the second time underneath him. Now she lies sated beside him, content and half-asleep while he watches her, while he guards her. He'd give anything to keep her hear like this, to keep both of them here, permanently away from the world and all it's dangers. He thinks about the dreams he's had, of disappearing into the woods where his family's cabin is nestled, and never coming back. If only it were that simple. If only it were the easy.

"What are you thinking?" Jane asks, and Kurt realizes her eyes are no longer closed, that she's openly staring at him.

"I'm wondering why I waited so long to do this," he gestures with a grin, reaching down with his hand and grabbing her upper thigh as if to make a point. She swats him away, laughing in the shadows of their bedroom, pretending to scowl.

"Because you're a gentleman," Jane suggests, scooting closer to him, and Kurt leans back against the headboard, propping himself up on one elbow.

"Hardly," he scoffs, shaking his head, but he gently brushes her hair out of her face and curls it back behind her ears. He let's his hand linger against the angry bruise on her cheek, and wishes he could make it go away. "You on the other hand, are a saint, at least according to Tasha."

"Am I?" Jane curls into his side, resting her hands against his chest, hooking her leg between his, leaving no room between them. "Why is that, I wonder? And what else have you and Tasha been talking about without me?" Jane muses aloud, mostly in jest, but the look on Kurt's face is solemn and serious, and so her smile is replaced with a look of concern.

"She said you're a saint for putting up with me," Kurt murmurs, "she also said I should talk to you more, and I agree with her."

"I'll have to agree with her too," Jane echoes, half amused, but also completely genuine. She rests her hand against Kurt's neck, her fingers curling around it and pulling him closer and pressing a kiss to his forehead. He closes his eyes, amazed at her softness, at her gentleness, and he wonders at how someone so strong, so stubborn, can also be so kind. He hardly deserves it, and yet here she is, allowing him in when she has every right to keep him out.

"I know I scared you on the rooftop," Jane says suddenly, burrowing as close as she possibly can to him, as if it would make him understand her more if there were no space between them, "I know I've scared you a lot, the last few weeks, and I'm sorry, Kurt. I've only ever had to worry about myself, but now that I have you, I guess I have to learn to worry for two people instead."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Jane," it's the very same thing he'd said on the rooftop nearly twelve hours ago, and it's even more true now than it was then. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to keep you safe, and I'm sorry I've kept you at arms length. I just thought…"

Kurt sucks in a breath, fights back the swell of emotion in his chest, the burning at the edge of his eyes that he doesn't want to admit is there.

"That it'd be easier?"

"You could say that."

Jane nods and reaches for his hand, she presses her lips against his knuckles and then holds it firmly against her chest, directly over her heart. She understands him without having to say it.

"You won't always be able to keep me safe," Jane murmurs, holding tight to him, grounding him like she always has, and grounding herself too, "and I don't think this will ever be easy, but you have me Kurt, all of me, no matter what, and I'd like to think I have all of you."

"Of course you've got me," Kurt replies gruffly, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes, "you always will Jane, _always_ , just promise me one thing?"

"I can try," Jane rolls onto her back, staring right up at him, still holding tight to his hand as he peers down at her with heart breaking desperation. "I will try, Kurt."

"We're a team, you and me, but I need you to promise me that you won't make anymore unnecessary risks," Kurt whispers, bowed over her, a man seeking sanctuary in the one place he can find it. "I need you to promise me that you won't try to go somewhere I can't follow."

"Oh, Kurt—"

He didn't realize he was crying until she reaches for him, her fingers wiping away the trail of tears from his cheeks, and she crawls upright in bed, and then into his lap, until she's enveloped him in her arms and he's wrapped his around her. He takes one shaky breath, and then another, his face buried in her neck, her voice a soft whisper of reassurance in his ear, her hands clutching him to her. He wonders how they're supposed to live like this, making promises they might not be able to keep. He thinks of all the conversations he's had with his sister, and with Reade, of how this job, what they do, doesn't give them the chance for a happy ending.

Jane's proof that it's true, proof that bad things happen to them, dangerous things, and yet she's also living proof of the exact opposite. She makes him happy, she gives him hope that despite all of the terrible people and things in the world, happy endings do exist.

"I think we need a vacation," Jane draws back from him, forces him to look at her by gently pushing at his shoulders, "an immediate vacation, a week or two if we can talk the team into letting you use all that time you've built up, huh? Just you and me and the cabin and absolutely no reason to get dressed for seven days straight."

"I think you've lost your mind," Kurt laughs, wiping the last remnants of stray tears away with the back of his hands, "but I also think it sounds like heaven."

"Mayfair tried to talk me into taking another month of medical leave, you know," Jane adds quietly, still comfortably straddled across Kurt's lap, wearing a guilty grin, "I didn't tell you because I knew you'd push for it, but maybe if someone took leave with me, I might be more inclined to lay low for at least a little while…"

"A month is a long time," Kurt wraps his arm around Jane's back, quickly, but carefully, rolling her over and onto the bed again so that their positions are reversed, and he's now poised above her. "And you're right, I would've pushed for it, and maybe I still will."

"Was that a threat, agent Weller?" Jane's green eyes are bright, taunting, and she props herself up on her elbows beneath him.

"Think of it as more of a proposition, Agent Doe," Kurt replies, leaning forward to meet her half way, kissing her once, twice, and then three times until she's pressed back into the bed, laughing against his mouth, hands at his back, his tangled in her hair.

"A month is a long time," Jane repeats Kurt's earlier words, albeit breathlessly, her hand finding it's way into his hair as Kurt's lips work their way from her mouth, to her jaw, down her neck and down her chest, to each breast, and then lower. "I'm sure you could find something to do though to keep yourself occupied."

"Oh, I can think of at least one."

* * *

 _ **AN:** ahhhhhh it's been forever since I initially started this fic. It's sort of diverged from what I initially had planned, and really there could potentially be a couple more chapters to this, so I'm leaving it as incomplete until the next wave of muse hits me. This kinda came out of nowhere and asked to be written, so I sorta have an idea of where I'd like this to go, but we'll see what happens. I just really love protective!Kurt, and injured!Jane, and of course alllll the angst. Thanks for reading and lemme know what you think! And I promise I have the next chapter of Greek Tragedy in the works, and possibly another episode tag/filler for Painting Tarots. xoxo :)_


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